I find, these days,
That I think more in poetry than prose.
Mostly chaotic, unrhymed, unmetered strands of theme
Mostly revolving around the disheveled interior
I find myself carting around
These days.

It’s hard, these days,
To get through a conversation
Without longing to rush for my yellow notebook
Without writing down some sort of ecstatic poem
On the feebleness of time.
Even  dialogue I have with myself.

It’s as if, these days,
I am surfing the edge of a tsunami,
That it’s the only way for my soul to tell me
That the world is not quite so unstable–
This poem-mind of mine speaks to me and
I cannot help but listen.

My peace is frazzled and frayed
Like the end of a rug
Which is caught in the front door
Which nobody thinks to move out of the way—
And indeed, sometimes I do not think to move
Myself away either.

This poem-mind of mine is a blaze
which consumes the color around me
Asking for some kind of depth
Asking for more understanding–
Slowly, very quietly all the wind dies down
And the chaos within me
Finds solace

The reader brings his or her own experience to the poem and creates meaning. Here is my experience.

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